


Turn On the Ghost Light

by riverlatreaux



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ghost Hunters, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Ed Does Not Join the Military, Ghost Hunter Edward Elric, Ghost Maes Hughes, Ghost Roy Mustang, Ghosts, He'd Personally Kick my Ass, If Ed Knew I Was Calling Him a "Ghost Hunter", Non-Canonical Character Death, POV Alternating, POV First Person, The Term "Ghost Hunter" is being used Very Loosely in terms of Ed Being One
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25742269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverlatreaux/pseuds/riverlatreaux
Summary: Roy Mustang died protecting his country and avenging the death of Maes Hughes, only to find that there's a life after the one he thought he was leaving behind.Not being able to leave their final resting place and move on, Roy and Maes have held true to three general ground rules to keep their spirits safe, the most important being Don't Talk to Anyone.That is, until a perseverant blond pipsqueak gets them to make an exception.
Relationships: Edward Elric & Roy Mustang, Edward Elric/Roy Mustang
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26





	Turn On the Ghost Light

> “The universe is deathless. It is deathless because having no finite self, it stays infinite.”
> 
> \- Elise Reiner

I find him frustrating and confounding, but in all of the ways that I found enjoyable in my previous life. I dedicated my life to finding all of the right people to be by my side as I attempted to climb the ranks of the military. I would call them “the best of the best”, and that was true in my heart. I always thought that we would conquer the fascist regime we partook in. 

The means: hating my role in the government less by surrounding myself with good people that would help me. The end: saving this country by becoming Fuhrer and making change that would cleanse the land of its sins. We would finally be atoning for the senseless bloodshed we were a part of. To me, the end outweighed the means.

I had a vision for my future, for the future of everyone that I loved and cared about, for my country and the pride that I hold with it. That dream died with me. I am so glad that my men weren’t with me during the fire, because I don’t think that I could forgive myself for allowing them to die by my hand, too. 

Those memories, both hypothetical and real, continue to haunt me. I think the military spin-doctored my death so that I died a martyr, attempting to save the military from an evil that wished to harm the Fuhrer. I wished to die as a war criminal; that would have been the only penance for the atrocities committed in Ishval, but I didn’t particularly get that chance. However, I did partially get what I wanted: I died without much fanfare. It happened quickly, clumsily. It didn’t happen at all how I had machinated in my mind. I thought far too much instead of living. It took Maes shaking me sane for me to realize that I had killed us both attempting to protect him.

To “protect our legacy”, or however the military said it, no officer has done official work in this sector of the building since. I didn’t want military quarters so close to Central to be lost to ruin, but I suppose that they don’t particularly care too much, if the Fifth Laboratory was any indication. But still, it is now only Maes and I, in this vast space.

Waking up here… “waking up”? I don’t think that’s the proper phrase for what…  _ this _ is. Hughes’ working theory is purgatory, since we haven’t seen the asshole that I burned up with in this wing of the building since the day itself. Maes hopes he’s in hell. I don’t particularly believe in anything, but I sure like the concept of eternal damnation right about now.

There’s some truth to that concept of hell, but I don’t think it’s below our feet pirouetted in fire and pitchforks. To think, whole religions and frauds like in Leore sprout up overnight, carrying on about staying “clean” or “without sin” in this life so the next one isn’t spent in hell instead of paradise. Wouldn’t it be so much easier to say that this right here, where we are now, is hell? The spot where we died, having to ruminate endlessly over our sins and our supposed place in the universe, for eternity? Or until “our souls have found peace”?

I don’t think that my soul will ever find peace. I know this, and I didn’t have to remind Hughes of this either; he knows me damn well enough to know that I will never be satisfied, now that my dreams burned up in flames as easily as my corporeal form did. At this point, if that idea is even reality, hopefully Maes finds his peace and leaves me here to suffer in silence. That would be better for both of us.

It has been a couple of years now since the fire. Hughes has had plenty of time now to tell me of the military’s most well-kept secret, now that we can’t do a damn thing about it. To think, how many other people discovered the truth about our Fuhrer, only to immediately get assassinated from within? How many times has this happened, and how many times have we overlooked this treason disguised as memorial protocol? 

I don’t know how Hughes found his way to me after his death, and I hardly recall much after his funeral; mostly research, investigation, finding the killer, and then… nothing. He tells me that his spirit followed me since I went with the forensics team to the crime scene, and was screaming his head off at me from the funeral until my last fight. ‘ _ You’re being an idiot’ _ this, and ‘ _ Don’t you fucking throw all of our hard work away’ _ that.

He literally greeted my spirit by saying, “Roy, you goddamn hothead,” and then told me to leave him alone until he wasn’t “mad as hell”. 

He was right, but he could have been nicer about it. Like, damn, I had just  _ died. _

I’m seemingly only ever “hot-headed” when it’s at the behest of others, a surprise given my moniker and specialty.

After I let him cool off (I didn’t keep the time, but it must have been at least twelve hours), we were a team again. Even if we weren’t forced to by fate or whatever pulls the strings, we pushed the limits of our situation, ran some experiments as to what we could and could not do as… ghosts? Still not sure on that front, but we came up with some general ground rules..

Rule Number One: We can’t leave the building. No matter how much hitting at the walls, running towards the exits, or yelling at the sky that we do, we’re met with indifference; the walls don’t budge, we run into darkness to find ourselves back in the main hallway, and no one answers our prayers. 

Maes has plead to the cosmos every night since we’ve been here. “Please, I just want to see Gracia again. I want to see how much our daughter has grown. I don’t want her to think that Daddy doesn’t love her, and she needs to know that I think about her every day. I just want to try to see them, to give them a sign-  _ anything, please. _ ” His cries are always met with silence. 

I don’t think that Maes knows that I am aware of his attempts each night, but if he does, he isn’t telling. I find him later completely back on his feet, like nothing happened by the morning.

Rule Number Two: We can’t speak to the living. I can, however, interact with our environment, but not physically. Hughes can’t interact with anything corporeal at all. The only justification I can think up as to why only I can is because of some potential energy saved and reserved in this space from alchemists. I believe that because of my previous alchemical ability, I can tap into the universe’s stored energy to manipulate my surroundings.

Rule Number Three: Don’t Talk to Anyone.

This rule has nothing to do with supposed laws or rules put in place by the universe. Maes and I made a pact to never do so, since we could never speak to those we truly wished to, anyway. 

The only three living not blacklisted haven’t stepped into the building since the accident. Gracia and their girl walk by the building, stand in front of it, and speak to Maes sometimes. To give him their best wishes, give him updates about Elicia’s life and how she’s doing in school. Every time, Maes is sobbing his eyes out, trying his damndest to reach out to them. It never works. I would help if I could, but I can’t interact with anything outside of the building. So he weeps, and I comfort him.

The only other person I’d speak to hasn’t stepped into the building since my passing. I haven’t seen her since. Even if I were to see her, what would I say? Perhaps I would apologize for dying, for allowing everything that we’ve worked for since Ishval to die with me. I could apologize for not being as careful as I should’ve been, but that wouldn’t help. What’s done has been done for quite a while now. 

I suppose the only thing I could say to her is, “Thank you for not being here when it happened, Lieutenant.” I don’t know where she is now, but I am so thankful that she can continue to do good, alive.

But now, in the place of welcome company in my afterlife, there have been new tests of my patience: trespassers and gawkers; the “ghost enthusiasts”, those assholes looking for a good scare, the haunted pub-crawls and parties fueled by teenage rebellion (how dare they bring alcohol in here when I can’t have any). And now, here’s this small stain amongst the larger smatterings of shit that I’ve had to put up with since I died those years ago, obnoxious red coat and all. 

Hundreds of people have since stayed for hours with Hughes and I, sometimes the whole night -- but each time either leaving incredibly disappointed or relieved. Either way, empty-handed. For as long as the living stay in this building, we don’t make a sound; Hughes because he can’t, and I stand in complete silence, watching the leader of their groups with the same stillness given to me from years of training as a soldier in combat. Staring, unwavering eye-contact more impeccable than ever in my death, on account of blinking being unnecessary. 

Those that bring their strange fumbled-together instruments, trying so hard to find “ground-breaking science” about the paranormal and the afterlife, have all left here with nothing. This kid is like them, but also… not like them.

For one, he’s the only one that’s come back nearly every day. Most people give up within two or three visits, but this pain in my ass has been coming for a month straight now. Even if I were to fuck up, he would come back regardless.

He’s also simply not like the others, in terms of his loud fucking personality. When I say loud, I mean  _ loud _ . Babysitting the ghost-hunters is usually a one-man job, but this kid’s screaming always brings Hughes into the room eventually, speaking of “can’t get any damn peace and quiet between you two”, and we sit together with him until he is satisfied with not getting what he came for and finally leaves. 

Every time, I ask Maes how the hell he could bear having a child. Every time, he says, “Elicia is an angel, that child is a gremlin.”

Sometimes, he adds, “Eh, he grows on you.”

Indeed, he does. Like a barnacle. A loud, crude, gaudy barnacle named… I don’t know his name. But he speaks like he knows the truth about every scientific phenomenon known on Earth, and he doesn’t look older than twelve. 

He’s arrogant for his size; he’s a pilot light, and the world is the gas and heat that keeps his flame lit.

This kid...

I think that this kid is the life that I’d been missing for so long.

He would have come back regardless of any fuck-ups on my part, and come back he has, his loud steel boots signaling his entrance into the building. I follow the harsh sound of his boots meeting the hard tile of the floor until we find each other face-to-face at our usual figurative battlefield.

He’s usually yelling about how he’ll get us this time, and that “you won’t hide from me, you bastard!”, but he’s more… silent than usual. Without so much as a sweeping gesture around the room with his arms, he begins speaking.

“Alright, uh. Listen, weird vacant building… well- fuck, in the physical sense, you’re vacant. You know what I mean, okay?!”

In every other circumstance, I’ve called this kid fighting with the inside of an empty building either hilarious or deeply sad. 

But seeing  _ this  _ kid doing it,  _ now _ ?? Vaguely endearing.

He seems to be on the defensive. He’s rambling, fumbling over his words, second-guessing himself. This is not the same pompous asshole that came here a month ago.

“You know why I’m here; you know who I am. I introduced myself when I first came here, but I tend to be flippant about introducing myself to ‘supposed entities without a corporeal form’, or whatever.” I, in fact,  _ don’t  _ know your name, and you  _ were  _ pretty fucking flippant about introductions, so, continue going off, as the kids say, I suppose. “I don’t- … I haven’t really believed in supernatural phenomena in the past. I have more or less dedicated my life to debunking the existence of that class of thought, but, uh… being here, in this building…” His voice trails off, as if his voice left his body and flew off into another of the many rooms here. “If it’s alright with you, I would like to try a different approach.”

“What’s the kid talking about now, Roy? Insulting you again?” I didn’t even notice Maes’ presence entering the room to join us. I find myself transfixed on this blond menace, whatever it is that he’s doing. 

It’s then that he shoulders off his backpack to take out what’s inside. I look at Hughes and visibly shrug, a compromise to “I don’t know” since I don’t know if he already has his audio equipment set up.

The kid’s, “Alright, here we go!” gets me to direct my attention back at him, and his… ouija board.

This scientist, alchemist, pain-in-my-ass, insulter of all things paranormal and ghost-related, supposed cynic of witchcraft to the point of  _ multiple _ hour-long lectures to an unwilling audience of  _ two ghosts _ , and general owner of no one good quality, has laid before my feet:  _ a ouija board _ .

I did the unthinkable: I laughed. I guffawed, I chuckled, I was rolling outside of my grave. Hughes stared dumbfounded at the kid while I held onto the wall with one hand and held onto my stomach with the other. Without the need for breath, my laughter echoed off the walls without abandon. 

After a minute or so, I came to my senses.  _ Shit!!  _ This kid always has equipment with him. Heat signatures, changes in light or air, sound, you name it -- this kid brings everything with him to ensure scientific accuracy. The  _ scientific accuracy of ghosts _ \-  _ HA ! _

I slap my mouth closed with both of my hands, snapping my head to look around the room, first at Hughes and then towards the kid’s set-up. I knew that the kid’s energy seemed off today, compared to his usual visits, but I didn’t think to care about why that was. Seeing this now, his indifference to my sudden outburst, it hit me: none of his fancy equipment is here. Nothing from his usual arrangement; his weird avant-garde design choices, gothic splashes of black and red, the  _ gargoyles  _ on his camera, for some reason??

None of that is here today.

Just him, palms actually held out as a demonstration of his intention to not harm us.

“If ghosts are real-  _ if _ , they’re real, uh… I’m fucking up again.” He takes a breath. “If there’s someone here, I can see why they’ve been hesitant to show themselves. I’ve been an asshole, I wouldn’t show up either, y’know?”

He sits down on the floor and starts to remove tarot cards from their cardboard box, dumps a bag out containing little wooden chips with different runes on them, pulls the planchette for his ouija board out of his backpack and places it- oh, there’s the gargoyle. It’s on the planchette. Of fucking course it is.

“I only gave myself a day to research and alchemy up what I needed to come over tonight, so I don’t know how much of this is… accurate, or what you’ll actually respond to? But I want to actually try to talk to you like you’re a person… not like a science experiment.”

“Holy shit.” I turn around to see Maes grinning from ear to ear. “He’s the genuine article, huh?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He’s someone worth bending Rule Three over, Roy. He’s someone that cares.”

I look back at the kid, now holding a black leather-bound book, the same one he’s brought with him every other time he’s come to do his research. “I don’t have my usual stuff with me; I can’t see you or hear you… not like I could anyway, but now I’m explicitly ensuring your autonomy in all of this.” I walk closer to him, looking over his shoulder to see him reading the notes he’s written down. He chuckles to himself before saying, “I’ve brought this stupid notebook with me to record my findings on you, but I’ve never gotten to use it until today. It’s hysterical that my first writings in this book are notes on how to use  _ this _ shit.”

He’s telling the truth. The notes in crude writing are about the runes on the wooden chips. He flips over to a page on basic ouija board etiquette. He pulls out a candle and begins to light it. “So, I, uh, just wanna have a chat with you. Is… that alright?”

I turn around to look at Hughes.

He gives me the  _ go-on _ motion with his hand. “I give you my blessing.”

I unabashedly laugh in the kid’s face this time.

“Holy shit, this is the first time you’ve been a pleasant guest.” Hughes chuckles behind me. He knows this is for me. The kid said himself: he can’t hear us. So I plan on taking this time to cite every goddamn grievance I have about him and his stupid face and his grating voice.

But then… I look at that stupid face again, and all of my negative emotion washes away. I see him for what he is, maybe for the first time since I’ve known him: hopeful. There’s a reason he’s come back incessantly. He’s determined, that’s for damn sure, but there’s more to it than that.

There’s a fire in those eyes.

I sit down in front of him, crossing my legs and then my arms, preparing myself for a long night.

“Alright, I’ll bite. Your move, kid.”

**Author's Note:**

> More to Come: Ed making first contact.


End file.
